


but your eyes lift to the sky

by tobeconvincedoflove



Series: when my eyes are clear [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, As well, Blood, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Surgery, Vomiting, and some crying, man tears though obvs, there's lots of, this is really weird but apparently ya'll wanted more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 07:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2340899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things don't get better when Enjolras agrees to go to the hospital. If anything, they get worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but your eyes lift to the sky

“Come on, E. Wake up. _Please_.” There’s someone carding their fingers through Enjolras’s hair, and when he manages to pry his eyelids apart, his eyes eventually clear enough to recognize the glasses and the gentle smile that can only come from Combeferre. “We’re at the hospital, so you’re going to have to try to stay awake.” Now, Enjolras is dizzy and his stomach hurts and it’s hard to breathe so he just nods. He knows he’s freezing but it seems he’s not even shivering anymore. 

“Can you walk?” Courfeyrac asks, as both of his friends slip out of the car. Combeferre’s parents had rushed in to inform the nurses and start filling out paperwork, and it’s the boys’ job to try to get Enjolras inside. “We’re parked right by the entrance; it’s only like ten feet.” 

“Yeah,” Enjolras rasps out, but as soon as his feet touch the ground his knees buckle and the nausea hits him. Courfeyrac’s strong grip on Enjolras from behind is the only thing that keeps him from falling over as he sees red spill out of his mouth. Before it’s even over, Enjolras feels someone lift him and start running through the doors, as more blood pours out. In a few seconds, there’s the rattling of wheels on the floor as cold hands take Enjolras, placing a bucket under his chin as he’s eased onto on something soft and the rattling starts again. When it’s finally over, the bucket is gone and the same cold, latex hands are pushing him gently backwards, until his head collides with something soft. Then there’s something placed over his face and Enjolras hears the hiss of compressed oxygen before he curls into a ball. Remembering Combeferre’s words, he tries to stay awake, but in a few seconds his eyelids are too heavy to open again. And he’s so tired. 

The next time his eyes flutter open, a few minutes later, it’s to the face of a doctor as she looks down Enjolras’s throat. There’s a needle in his arm connected to a bag full of clear liquid, and Enjolras can’t help the impulse to cough, which he does. Flecks of blood fly into his hand, and before he can even try to sit up someone is hauling him up, assumedly so he doesn’t choke. When it’s over, and his vision clears, he’s lowered back down to the gurney. 

“Adam, I’m Dr. Shepard,” the lady says, sitting down on a wheely stool in front of the bed. “You were brought to the hospital a few minutes ago by your friends, and I’ve been doing a preliminary examination. I need to ask you a few questions, though, before I can run further tests.” 

“Okay,” Enjolras rasps out, trying to clear his throat. 

“How long have you been sick?” she asks, and Enjolras has to think.

“A few weeks. I didn’t start vomiting blood until yesterday, though,” he explains, coughing a little. 

“Okay. Where is it hurting?” 

“My throat. And my chest and stomach,” Enjolras says, trying not to focus on how much it hurt to swallow. 

“Is it just a soreness in your chest?” Dr. Shepard asks, flicking her red hair a little. Enjolras immediately shakes his head.

“It’s hard to breathe.” There’s a sharp exhale, and Dr. Shepard immediately whispers things to the nurses. “What’s wrong with me?” 

“We don’t know for sure, but it sounds like there’s an initial infection which lead, untreated, to a hole in your esophagus. We need to do a CT scan.” 

“What does that mean?” Enjolras asks, coughing a little. 

“Your initial infection, which we believe is bronchitis, caused you to cough so much that you tore your esophagus somewhere. If this is the case, it explains why there was blood in your stomach, and there’s probably fluid in your lungs and chest cavity, too. We’ll need to drain all of the fluid out and repair the tear before it becomes infected,” she says, her voice calm. Enjolras tries to calm the panic, because he _epically fucked this up_ and he has no way to pay for this. “Right now a nurse is opening up a CT machine, and in a few minutes you’ll have the scan. Until then, do you want to see someone?” 

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says immediately, before coughing again. Stars burst in front of his eyes, and he’s worried he’s going to start vomiting again, but luckily he doesn’t. 

“I’ll go get them, and explain what’s happening? I’ll also get the nurse to give you some painkillers via the IV; we can’t give you water, because if it is an esophageal perforation we want to keep your chest and stomach completely clear.” 

In a matter of minutes, his two friends enter the small examination room, and Enjolras realizes there’s blood all the way down his shirt. One of the nurses replaces the mask on his face, because it was still very difficult to breathe. In an instant, both of his friends are by his side, Courfeyrac running a hand through his hair worriedly as Enjolras smiles wearily at him. 

“You’re awake?” is all Combeferre asks, impressed. 

“Did they… did they tell you?” Enjolras gasps out, trying to ignore the horrible scraping feeling in his throat, and he moves the oxygen mask so there’s a chance they’ll understand what he’s saying. 

“No. That’s staying on,” is all Courfeyrac says at first, and when Enjolras doesn’t lift a heavy hand to shift it back, he does it himself. “And, yeah, they did.” 

“They’re talking to my parents now. Courfeyrac’s father is on his way, too. They’re trying to figure this out, E,” Combeferre tells him. Enjolras opens his mouth to argue, but Courfeyrac cuts him off.

“Dude, there’s probably a fucking hole in your throat. I don’t think you should be talking,” he says, and Enjolras makes a weird noise, but doesn’t say anything more. “They’re going to talk to your parents tomorrow. We’re figuring out what we’re going to do about… about all of this.” 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras mumbles, before coughing a little. He thinks about all of the trouble he’s causing the Combeferres, and his friends, and shame wells inside of him. They shouldn’t have to deal with this. 

“That’s not what he meant,” Combeferre corrects quickly, knowing where Enjolras mind is going. “They’re figuring out how to tell your parents they’re douchecanoes and working out a way for you to get the help you need. Of course, your parents aren’t involved in any of that.” There’s another strangled noise from Enjolras, but Courfeyrac quickly shushes him. 

“You’re not being a burden. I swear our parents are only mad at yours, not you. Are they disappointed that you hid this for so long? Yes, but they’re mostly worried because you fucking scared us. It’s still scary,” Courfeyrac explains, grabbing Enjolras’s hand as he talks. 

“But don’t worry about any of this. You need to rest, and get better,” Combeferre adds, his voice holding a little force as he tries to impress on Enjolras just how serious this is actually turning out to be. He’s about to add more, but then a nurse is back.

“If you two want to head up to the surgical floor waiting room, we’re going to take Mr. Enjolras for the CT scan now.” Her voice leaves no room to argue, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac quietly file out, the latter placing a light kiss to Enjolras’s forehead as he goes. 

****

*

As it turns out, Enjolras does have a very large perforation in his thoracic esophagus, or the part that’s in his chest. It’s probably already infected, and the doctors are waiting both for an OR to operate in and for the fluid to be drained out of Enjolras’s chest.

Right now, Mrs. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are in the room he’s been admitted to, but Enjolras has been sedated so that the tubing snaking down his throat and into his lungs and stomach and somewhere else Combeferre doesn’t remember isn’t hurting him. Combeferre does remember, though, when they sedate Enjolras; the fear is evident in his friend’s tired face, and he fights the medicine, gripping Combeferre’s hand like a lifeline until the drugs overwhelm him. Enjolras looks so much younger than he normally does, his thin face completely at peace and the hospital gown he’s shoved into hanging off of his small body. 

Combeferre is torn out of his thoughts by the sounds of his father and Courfeyrac’s having a whispered conversation. 

“We’ve known that man’s been awful, but this… this is something else.”

“He’s eighteen, though. They aren’t obligated to do anything.” 

“That doesn’t excuse this. He’s still a boy, and he can’t sustain himself.”

“He was damned if he didn’t try, though. And he would have, but shit just fell apart. Is there anything we can do?” 

“If his parents aren’t going to act like parents, there’s a lot we can do.” 

For a moment, Combeferre is worried his father won’t help, that he’ll leave Enjolras with the medical bills and the inability to stop this from happening again. But his father’s known Enjolras since the day he was born, and he’s never liked Mr. Enjolras, anyway. He’s tolerated him for both his wife’s sake and his son’s, but he’s never liked how he acts, especially when Combeferre tells him about the awful fights between him and his son. And money isn’t a problem in Combeferre’s family… it’s not like they don’t have more than enough to help Enjolras. 

“Excuse me, sirs,” a nurse says, and Combeferre’s listening a lot more intently now. “There’s no emergency contacts listed under Mr. Enjolras’s files, but considering he isn’t capable of medical decisions under sedations, and soon, anesthetics, he’s consented to change the paperwork, at least temporarily. Would either of you, or your families, be willing?” 

“Of course,” Combeferre’s father answers immediately, hurriedly. When they first arrived, Combeferre had been terrified that Enjolras’s parents were still listed as emergency contacts, but it appears they retracted that, too. “We were going to approach Adam, anyway. He’s only eighteen; he needs emergency contacts.” Quickly, he scribbles down both his (and his wife’s) cellphone numbers, before passing the pen to his friend. 

“What is your relationship to Adam?” the nurse asks, but Combeferre stops listening at this point. His heart has stopped pounding with anxiety, now that he knows without a doubt his parents _want_ to help Enjolras, and not just because he’s Combeferre’s friend. Remembering the car is still parked in the lot outside of the emergency room, he decides to go move it before Enjolras goes in for surgery. 

It’s a quiet walk, and Combeferre answers a few of his friends’ concerned texts on the way, until he’s back in the ER waiting room. There’s an older man and a teenage girl talking to the nurse at the front desk, but Combeferre doesn’t pay any attention, until a phrase catches his attention. 

“…is there an Adam Enjolras here?” The man’s voice is soft, kind, but Combeferre’s protective instincts are setting in. He doesn’t know who these people are, or what they want with his friend. So he walks over to the man.

“If there was, what would you want with him?” Combeferre asks, his voice cold. It doesn’t faze the man, though, who’s so much larger and muscular than he should be. 

“To see if he’s okay,” the girl answers for him, her soft voice seemingly genuine. 

“Why?” Combeferre knows he’s being rude, but he doesn’t want Enjolras anywhere near a potentially dangerous situation. Not when he’s this sick. 

“I’m Jean Valjean, and this is my daughter, Cosette,” the man explains, and something clicks inside of Combeferre’s head. This is the man who gave blankets and warm things to his friend when he needed them. That’s when Combeferre’s face flushes with shame. “I’m assuming you know Adam well.” 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Valjean,” Combeferre apologizes immediately. “I’m James Combeferre, and if you want, I can take you to where he is? Just give me a minute.” Once the man nods, Combeferre hurriedly re-parks the car in the right lot, running back around to the ER entrance. 

“How do you know Adam?” Cosette asks, as Combeferre takes them to the surgical floor. There’s a hit of animosity in her voice, and now, Combeferre gets it. How can he presume to care when he wasn’t there for all those months? When Mr. Valjean was the only decent human being in Enjolras’s life?

“Since he was born. We were pretty much inseparable since then, until… until this year,” Combeferre explains, and sees Cosette’s face crease. “And I know how this looks, but I swear if I had known what was going on, I wouldn’t have let it happen, but I didn’t. All of a sudden he wasn’t texting or calling or anything and my mum stopped seeing him around and no one knew where he was and Courf and I were miles away at college. It was a stroke of luck my parents found him last night.” The words flow from Combeferre’s mouth before he can stop them. He needs to justify that he’s not this shitty person who’s only showed up because Enjolras is in the hospital. So he takes a deep breath before continuing. “Sorry. I guess I’m trying to say thank you. He mentioned you when he was really out of it, and I know what you did for him. There’s no way to repay you.” There’s a few tears sneaking out, and Combeferre doesn’t know if they’re from stress or fear or worry or just sadness, but he wipes them away hurriedly. 

“It was nothing,” Mr. Valjean says, his voice deep and calm. “Just being a decent person. Enjolras is a good kid.” 

“How sick is he? He looked awful the last time we saw him,” Cosette asks, lightly placing an arm on Combeferre’s shoulder, silently apologizing for being short with him. She knows Enjolras, at least enough to know he hates asking for help. And she should know that, like Enjolras, Combeferre is just a boy; he’s almost as powerless to help in the situation as his friend was. 

“It’s not good,” Combeferre says, walking through the hallways towards Enjolras’s room. “There’s a tear in his esophagus near his chest, from coughing, and it’s infected. He was vomiting blood before, and he needs surgery to fix it. Right now they’re suctioning out the liquid that’s fallen out of the hole, and the blood that’s been leaking in.” There’s a silence, where Cosette claps a hand over her mouth and Valjean’s face pales. 

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Valjean asks, as they stop outside of the door to Enjolras’s room. 

“I don’t think so. Just let me go talk to my mom and Courfeyrac—they’re with him right now. He’s sedated, obviously, with the tubes in chest and everything,” Combeferre says, his hands shaking as the severity of the situation hits him again. There’s so much that can go wrong with this surgery, more than he’s used to. But he makes quick work of explaining who the people are to Courfeyrac and his mom, and after more thank you’s, the Valjeans sit with Enjolras, who’s drifting in and out of sleep, until he’s prepped for the surgery. 

****

*

It’s the first time since that phone call at two in the morning that Courfeyrac and Combeferre have the chance to talk. Currently, both of their sets of parents are arguing over the phone with Enjolras’s father, and Mr. Valjean and Cosette are entertaining themselves by playing with Courfeyrac’s little sisters. Enjolras has been in surgery for a few hours, but no one’s come out to tell them there’s been major complications, so there’s that.

“How was he?” Combeferre asks, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounds. “This morning?” 

“Asleep, mostly. But he was out of it enough when he was awake that he didn’t even notice the tubes down his throat,” Courfeyrac says, his voice a little hollow. “I keep seeing when we first got here, though.” There’s a tremor to Courfeyrac’s voice, as the images of Enjolras vomiting blood uncontrollably flash through his mind; outside of the car, and in Courfeyrac’s arms and as the nurses rush him away on a gurney. Especially as he’s being wheeled away… there’s blood all down Enjolras’s shirt and he’s unable to do more than slump over the bucket, torso not holding itself up. 

“He’s going to be okay,” is all Combeferre can think to say, because it’s the only possibility he’s willing to think about right now. Not when Enjolras’s father is being an extra large bag of dicks and Enjolras is open on an operating table. 

“What the fuck happened this year?” Courfeyrac’s voice is barely there, and now there are tears running down his face. “How did it get this bad? Why didn’t we _do_ anything?” 

“It’s going to be okay.” Combeferre’s repeating himself, but now even he doesn’t believe it. There’s guilt and fear and anger and who knows what else swirling around inside of him, and he’s tired and it’s too much. So he just hugs Courfeyrac, and they don’t do anything but cry for a while. When it’s over, there’s a different glint in Courfeyrac’s eye. 

“We’re not feeling guilty anymore. That’s not going to do anything for Enjolras right now; he’s sick and he’s scared and we can’t give him one more thing to think about.” He says the words with a decisiveness as he wipes his eyes, and Combeferre nods. 

“We’re going to have a long talk with him later, though,” Combeferre says. “Because he’s a fucking idiot and should have asked for help a long time ago.” 

“That is very true.” Despite himself, Courfeyrac laughs a little. “He’s so damn thickskulled.” 

“Has your phone been going crazy in the group message? Mine hasn’t stopped buzzing,” Combeferre switches the topic, back to what is easier to talk about. 

“Bahorel hasn’t stopped texting me,” Courfeyrac sighs, pulling out his phone. “I’ve gotten ‘where the fuck are you’ literally fifteen times.” 

“We should call them. Grantaire kind of knows, because we temporarily stole his car, but no one else does,” Combeferre decides. So they do, and they explain how their best friend is really sick and that’s why they left, but that’s about it. Their friends know about Enjolras, especially after Combeferre and Courfeyrac freaked out when he disappeared, but they don’t know everything. And they don’t need to. 

“Let’s go see what’s happening with everyone else, yeah?” 

 

****

*

“There were complications.” The surgeon’s voice is calm, but Combeferre feels his heart drop into his stomach with those words. “There’s a lot of fluid between his lungs, and in his lungs, and the tear was so infected that we had to remove a section of his esophagus. He also lost a lot of blood, but he’s being given a transfusion now and is luckily breathing mostly on his own, even though we suspect the bronchitis is progressing to pneumonia. We did manage to insert a chest cannula, though, so that the fluid can be drained directly from his chest, and he only needs a nasogastric tube for nutrients to go to his stomach while his esophagus heals.”

“Where is he? Can we see him?” Courfeyrac asks, his face pale. It sounded like a lot of bad had happened, and to top it off Enjolras’s parents officially disowned him. 

“He’s being situated in an ICU room right now. I’m not going to lie to you, Adam is in a precarious state and there’s a lot of problems that can arise right now, especially with his lungs. If he hadn’t come in when he did… well, in a few minutes, someone will come back to take two of you to see him,” the doctor explains, and Combeferre watches as his parents just nod. 

“Can Courf and I?” Combeferre asks, and is met with no resistance. The fact that Enjolras needs to be in the ICU is messing with his head, and he needs to know that his friend is okay. That’s how, twenty minutes later, he and Courfeyrac silently follow a nurse down a series of hallways into the ICU room Enjolras is in. There’s four other beds, but it only takes a second for Courfeyrac to zero in on Enjolras. His eyes are still closed, and there’s a tube taped to his face that disappears into his nose (and an oxygen mask), and there are so many machines, but Enjolras is there. He’s pale and the dark circles look like bruises under his eyes, but Enjolras is alive. 

So Courfeyrac and Combeferre sit down in the two chairs next to their friend’s bed, waiting for Enjolras’s eyes to open. It takes fifteen minutes, but eventually the gray irises slide into view. 

“Hey, bud. How are you feeling?” Courfeyrac asks as Enjolras lifts the hand without the IV(s) in it to brush his hair back. A nurse is checking the machines, after checking Enjolras, but he doesn’t seem to notice her. 

“Okay,” Enjolras slurs from underneath the mask, before frowning a little. He moves to push it up, but it only takes a light touch from the nurse to keep his arm from completing the action. “Wha’s on my face?”

“It’s an oxygen mask; it’s helping you breathe,” Combeferre explains kindly, as Courfeyrac grabs Enjolras’s hand. “Keep it there.” 

“Did they do the…” Enjolras starts, before struggling with many ways to say the word ‘surgery’. 

“Yeah. It went fine; they fixed your esophagus,” Courfeyrac says, only feeling like he’s lying a little. 

“Do… they know?” Enjolras asks the question slowly, swallowing a little (which hurts like fuck) as he does so. 

“No.” This time it’s a blatant lie, but Courfeyrac doesn’t feel an ounce of shame. Eventually, they’ll explain what’s been happening to Enjolras, but not when he’s out of it and in pain and looks half-dead. 

“You’re lying.” Enjolras says, because of everything Enjolras decides to pick up on, it’s that. “What’d he say?” 

“Enjolras, you should rest,” Combeferre tries, but now Enjolras is struggling to sit up, and failing, the heart rate monitor picking up slightly. 

“What did he say, ‘Ferre?” Enjolras’s voice is firm, and there’s something in his eyes that Combeferre can’t place. Thankfully, after Combeferre gently holds Enjolras shoulder so he doesn’t move (and, really, it’s more than enough to keep him down), he stops trying to sit up, and flops his head back against the pillows. 

“It’s not important. He’s not here,” Courfeyrac tries, carding a hand through the blond curls. 

“I need to know.” Enjolras’s voice is weak, and there’s something inherently broken in it. “It won’t be something I haven’t heard before.” Combeferre and Courfeyrac look at each other, debating. “ _Please_.” And, just like that, Courfeyrac caves.

“He thinks it’s your fault, and he refuses to help. He said you’re not his son anymore.” Courfeyrac’s voice is quiet and shaking with anger. “But it’s not, and you can’t—“

“I don’t know what I expected.” Enjolras’s voice almost isn’t intelligible beneath the mask. “I don’t know why I thought he’d—“

“You can’t worry about him. He’s an asshole and he’s wrong,” Courfeyrac says angrily, the hand not resting near Enjolras’s head fisting in his dark curls. 

“He’s not. ‘M a fuckup,” Enjolras whispers. “Can’t even take care of myself.” 

“You’re barely eighteen, E. This isn’t your fault.” Combeferre’s voice is firm, but Enjolras just shakes his head. With a speed he shouldn’t have, he takes off the oxygen mask, eyes blurry with what’s a combination of pain, anger, and haziness from the drugs pumping through his system. 

“It is. I’m an adult and I should’ve done better so he wouldn’t hate me. I’m stupid and I can’t even keep the jobs my brain can handle and he’s just sick of me.” There’s a pause. “I’ve been fucking up my entire life, ‘Ferre. I’m sick of me.” Enjolras thinks he wants to say more, but then he starts coughing, and immediately a nurse is there, placing the oxygen mask back over his mouth and nose and injecting something into an IV line that makes Enjolras’s muscles relax. But there’s silent tears slipping out of Enjolras’s now half-open eyes, and his chest is visibly moving with the effort. 

“He’s wrong. He’s so wrong because you’re so fucking intelligent and kind and, yes, stubborn, but that’s you and you’re brilliant, E. I swear he’s wrong. _You’re_ wrong.” The words are flying out of Combeferre’s mouth and he lets Enjolras shift around enough so that he can hug his friend. Enjolras is clinging tightly to Combeferre, as tightly as he can, and now he’s crying harder. 

“He isn’t. And I can’t depend on people to deal with how fucking incompetent I am. I can’t ask that of you, or Courf, or anyone. Not when it’s my fault,” Enjolras gasps out, his words slurring and the nurse hovering as if to intercede further. 

“You’re not incompetent, and you’re not making us do anything. We’re here because you’re our best friend and you just had major surgery and we want to make sure you’ll be okay,” Courfeyrac explains, watching as the beeping of the heart monitor evens out, but not Enjolras’s breathing rate. 

“I’ll be okay,” is all Enjolras rasps out, as the nurse comes back with another syringe. Evidently, she needs to do something to help Enjolras, but Combeferre knows there’s only one real option for that. 

“There’s a lot of fluid in your lungs, and it’s going to be very uncomfortable until we can treat it. Especially with the esophageal perforation, so I’m going to put you to sleep for a while,” she explains slowly, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac nod. Slowly, she inserts the needle into one of the IV lines and Enjolras’s eyelids start to droop in seconds. 

“Press the call button when he wakes up,” the nurse says simply, before retreating to check on a different bed. 

“Don’t wanna sleep,” Enjolras mumbles, hand reaching out for Courfeyrac’s. Immediately, Courfeyrac grasps it in two of his own, holding on tightly, as if to take some of the pain or fear or something out of his friend. 

“It’ll feel better when you wake up,” Combeferre assures his friend, smoothing back the blonde curls. Slowly, the two watch as Enjolras’s grip on consciousness slips, and eventually his eyes don’t open after they slide shut and the hand in Courfeyrac’s goes completely lax. 

“I think we need to go talk to our parents,” Courfeyrac says into the silence, his voice shaking a little. “This can’t go on.” 

“Yeah,” is all Combeferre says, because it’s all he can say. Before they leave the room, though, Combeferre glances backwards. Enjolras is small underneath the sheets and hooked up to all of the machines, and his breathing is labored even in his sleep. The image is so unlike Enjolras that Combeferre isn’t sure the man in the bed is his best friend for a moment; Enjolras is strong and bright and not… broken. 

Everything is upside-down and wrong that Combeferre’s head hurts. The world’s been yanked out from underneath his feet and it’s impossible to find the right footing again. For eighteen years, Combeferre’s known what to say to Enjolras, but now he’s stuttering and has no idea how to deal with any of this. But one thing is certain: he’s not going anywhere. However long it takes for Enjolras to be okay again, Combeferre will stay with him. By the way Courfeyrac grabs his hand, Combeferre knows they’re on the same page, and from the concerned text messages after Courfeyrac sends them a picture of Enjolras asleep (because they spent two hours asking for updates), their friends understand. 

Maybe, once things are better, they’ll be Enjolras’s friends, too. Because there are images, fantasies of Enjolras living with them in that little apartment off of campus (and in an even more far-fetched one, him attending school) that Combeferre can’t erase from his mind. He wants Enjolras to be as happy as he’s been the past few months. 

Is that so awful?


End file.
